


Sun Emoji Moon Emoji

by mybeanieandme



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: A brief dash of Ziam, Alternate Universe - College/University, Boys being silly and oblivious, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Poetry class, the briefest dash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 12:45:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3692805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybeanieandme/pseuds/mybeanieandme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt:</p><p>University!au: Harry works at a cafe as the busboy and Louis just really wants to get to know him. (Louis pines for an insecure Harry for a semester)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sun Emoji Moon Emoji

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gracefullyuntitled (liamlisten)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liamlisten/gifts).



> This was written in a short few days with lots of love and inspiration from Harry and Louis being the sun and moon emojis and reminiscing about college writing classes. 
> 
> Enjoy all the fluff and space poems.

Louis’s last semester of Uni and he only needed an English credit to pass. Somehow after four years of Psychology the one English elective he was required to take had slipped through the cracks, which lead him here to this coffee shop.

Introduction to Poetry had seemed the lesser of two evils and the easier choice. Not that poetry was easy but Louis had no idea what Russian Literature in a Post Lenin World would even begin to entail. Better the devil that you know, as they say.

Plus, as a bonus, the whole class was online. The reading assignments were easy enough. There was one assignment every two weeks, one new kind of poetic form to learn. But they came with a written component and Louis was dismally uninspired to write about anything other than his senioritis.

After a solid ten days of sighing heavily in their apartment, Zayn had kicked him out, telling him “If my paintings aren’t inspiring enough, get your ass outside and find something to inspire you.” Then he’d flicked a kneaded eraser at Louis and turned back to the massive canvas he was turning into yet another masterpiece for his senior thesis show.

Louis’d been a bit angry. He paid half the rent so he was owed at least half the space to sigh and laze about as he contemplated the “5-7-5” structure of a haiku. But Zayn, as always, had been right about outside being so much more inspiring than their shoebox apartment full of paintings Louis stared at all the time.

Mid-morning at Groovy Grounds was a calming buzz of adjunct professors preparing for later classes, delinquent undergrads skipping class, and graduate students pouring over mounds of work as they pushed through their remaining sixteen weeks. The place was bigger on the inside than it appeared from outside, a dozen or so tables with a hodgepodge collection of chairs, two larger couches that looked like they’d seen better days, and a set of four recliner chairs that must have belonged to four very different eclectic people.

Louis chose a dark blue chair with lion heads carved into its dark wooden legs. He set his bag down, effectively claiming the seat as his own before walking up to the long counter at the back.

There were five glass cake plates displaying an assortment of baked goods including three types of cookies and vegan banana bread.

A man Louis’s age poked his head out from a back room. He was wearing a tie-dye shirt under a maroon apron and the worst khaki slacks Louis’d ever seen. “Hey, man,” the guy said, walking up to the till. “What can I get you today?”

“Hello,” Louis looked up at the menu. “Do you have just- black tea?”

The man chuckled and gestured to a wall of tea Louis hadn’t noticed before. “We’ve got four different kinds of loose-leaf and then your standard Yorkshire.”

Louis gave the tea-tins a fleeting glance, “Yorkshire would be great.”

“Can I interest you in one of our baked goods this morning? They’re all made fresh in our very own kitchen,” tie-dye was using his best salesman voice and Louis gave in reluctantly.

“Those sugar cookies do look good,” he commented and the man’s face lit up. “But I’m not too fond of hard brittle cookies usually.”

“You’re in luck!” tie-dye told him, “it’s a soft cookie. Best you’ll have today, I can promise you that.”

Louis raised an eyebrow but took the bait, ordering his food before taking his seat.

Tie-dye brought him his tea and cookie, standing by his chair a bit too long.

“Thank you?” Louis said in an effort to make him leave.

“You look familiar,” tie-dye said, “Did we have class together? What year are you?”

“I’m graduating at the end of this semester,” Louis said.

“Did you take- maths with Schroder your second year?”

Louis’s eyes went wide and he finally looked at the man’s nametag. Liam. He vaguely remembered a Liam sitting towards the front of the class, struggling quite endearingly to get all the right answers. “I did,” Louis nodded.

“You’re Louis, right? You’re on the football team,” Liam placed his hands on his hips, puffing his chest out proudly at having remembered correctly.

“I am,” Louis nodded. He’d been on the team all four years, giving up his position as team captain this past year when school became too overwhelming.

“You’re aces,” Liam slapped him on the back before walking away without another word.

Louis set to work then, popping his headphones in and cracking his knuckles before opening his laptop.

Forty minutes later all he’d accomplished was finishing his cookie and polishing off his tea. He’d played three rounds of candy crush on his phone but was still no closer to composing his assignment.

“Excuse me,” a deep voice forced Louis’s eyes up, “are you finished with your plate and cup?”

Louis’s heart stopped in his chest as a tall man stood before him. He was miles of legs tucked into skinny black jeans, green swoop neck t-shirt tucked behind a maroon apron. Curls were escaping from a hastily done bun, licking around a thick pair of black glasses.

“Pardon?” Louis realized he was staring. The man startled, nearly dropping the gray bin of used-dishes he was holding.

“Your- your plate- and-,” he gestured.

“Oh!” Louis said, “Yeah-.” He nodded, handing the plate to the tall busboy, which he nearly dropped before placing it gently into the bin. Louis picked up the cup and then hesitated.

“Are you not finished?” the busboy asked, looking at the empty cup.

“I- what if I wanted more tea?” Louis asked.

“I could bring you some,” the busboy said.

“Really?”

“W-well,” the busboy fiddled with the bin a bit before settling it against his hip. “It’s not something we normally do- but-.” He snatched the cup away from Louis before walking off.

He returned a few minutes later dropping off a full cup without another word and suddenly Louis was feeling incredibly inspired.

_Curly, lanky man,_

_Bringing me Yorkshire tea,_

_Blissful morning view._

__

Harry got home later than usual and Niall was waiting for him with a half eaten pizza.

“I tried to wait for you,” he said, mouth completely full.

“It’s all right,” Harry sighed, sitting beside him on the sofa and sinking in deep.

“What’s wrong?” Niall asked, wiping at his mouth with the back of his arm. Harry noticed the smear of tomato and grease beside the one Niall just made. Harry stood up reluctantly to retrieve Niall a paper napkin. “Cheers,” he said, wiping at his arm and mouth as Harry sat down again.

Harry sighed heavily, leaning his head against Niall’s shoulder.

“Ah,” Niall said, “it’s _him_ again then?”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded. He nuzzled in deeper.

“What’d he do today, then?” Niall asked, prepared to hear the same story he’d heard every day for the past two weeks.

It started on a Thursday. Harry came home completely flustered; fumbling with his glasses mumbling something about a fit guy that ordered another cup of Yorkshire after the first one Harry wasn’t supposed to give him. After much prying and half a pint of ice cream later Niall had gotten more information out of him.

Harry’s mysterious crush since sophomore year was some guy on the footie team and apparently he’d started showing up at Harry’s place of employment. Niall pointed out that there were only three coffee shops near campus and it was inevitable and a miracle this guy hadn’t shown up earlier. Upon asking his name Harry waved his hands back and forth saying “I don’t know and I don’t want to know, it’s just a silly crush.”

“Today he put milk in his tea,” Harry said, leaning his head back on the sofa now. Niall snorted, giggling a little at the exasperation in his tone, as if everything this guy did caused him physical pain. “You should see his little hands work that keyboard, Ni,” Harry placed his hand on his chest, neglecting to mention how Harry had watched him type for so long he nearly overfilled the coffee tin, dropping half of it when the guy raised his arms to stretch. “He gets this look of concentration on his face- like what’s he writing? I _need_ to know.”

“Then fucking ask him,” Niall said simply.

Harry rolled his eyes.

“Speaking of-,” Niall continued, “Don’t you have a poem to write?”

Harry sighed heavily once again, reaching for his laptop.

This week his poetry class was submitting rhyming couplets online for critique.

_Graceful little fingers what do you compose?_

_Waxing lines of poetry of your dainty little nose,_

_Deepest eyes containing endless skies, infinite possibility,_

_I’d wait two years and twenty more for them to finally see me._

__

After a month Louis was coming to accept Groovy Grounds as his home, Zayn and his painting be damned. Liam always made him an aces cup of tea and sometimes he’d order a cookie- usually he ordered a cookie- and on days he didn’t, the cookie had started magically appearing with his order anyway.

Louis was almost sure it was Liam but part of his heart, the foolish part, hoped that it was the ridiculously handsome busboy that always lost his shit around Louis in the most adorable ways. A few times when he’d come to collect Louis’s plate, always bringing him an extra cup of tea or two, Louis almost asked him his name. Unlike Liam and Jesy who worked behind the counter, busboy was not required to wear a nametag. But the busboy always got so flustered Louis was genuinely scared he might drop hot tea in his lap before he got the question out or something worse. So they’d adopted a system of small smiles and short waves. Once Louis had dared to wink at him and the busboy had run away so fast he’d collided with the doorframe in his attempt to get to the back room.

On a particularly brisk spring morning, Louis was attempting to write what his professor called “A Lamenting Poem” which felt weirdly appropriate for his current predicament. The busboy came in five minutes late looking like he’d gone out the night before and possibly hadn’t gone home. He was wearing a sheer black long-sleeved shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, glasses off, his jeans were more sinfully tight than usual but most importantly his hair was down.

Louis had suspected that the busboy’s wispy curls, when out of their bun, hung loose at his shoulders in near chocolate ringlets. He thought about it so often they’d been the subject of last week’s assignment in fact. This morning he was elated to find out he had been right all along. Louis couldn’t have imagined how fluffy and springy they were, tousled and deliciously soft looking. He wanted to play and tug and to know if the busboy liked having his hair played with and tugged.

He let out a long-suffering sigh, opening his class’s website to eventually post his assignment.

_Here we are, we meet again,_

_Were you safe at 3 AM?_

_Wish I’d know to look for you,_

_But don’t know where you go,_

_But don’t know where you go._

_Daydreaming as the hours past,_

_I long to reach and touch and grasp,_

_Wanting just to hold you close,_

_Running fingers through your hair._

_Running fingers through your hair._

__

Harry was more frantic than usual when he got home, dropping his book bag and nearly tripping over Niall’s shoes upon entering the house. He’d had his contacts in for almost a solid 36 hours and everything was blurry.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Niall jumped off the sofa, dropping his bag of popcorn on the floor, scooping up Harry in his arms.

Harry leaned into him, burrowing in as Niall dragged them to the sofa.

“What happened, Haz?” Niall asked softly.

“H-he-he-,” Harry’s breathing got heavier and Niall ran for his inhaler. Harry took two deep puffs before choking out, “he’s-in- my- po-etry class.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Niall rubbed soothing circles into Harry’s back, other hand stroking through his hair. “Who’s in what?”

“The guy,” Harry took a deep breath, “he’s in my poetry class.”

“Plot twist!” Niall exclaimed. “How do you know?”

“I saw the website open on his computer,” Harry explained.

“You were peeking at his computer?” Niall said, “Harry!”

“I wasn’t trying to peek!” Harry cried. “I just saw when I was picking up his cookie plate.”

“You’re sure?” Niall said more softly this time and Harry merely nodded, hiding his face in his hands.

“Is it so bad?” Niall asked and Harry nodded more fervently. “But why?”

“Because of the poems,” Harry wanted to curl up and die.

“What about the poems?” Niall raised his eyebrows. “You’ve figured out which ones are his poems? Are they your favorite ones?”

Harry flushed a bright red, shaking his head. “My poems, Niall! They’re all about him!”

Niall clearly wasn’t having the proper reaction as Harry repeated his previous statement, emphasizing different syllabus. “They’re _all_ about _him_.” Niall simply shrugged his shoulders.

“So?” Niall said.

“SO!” Harry curled in on himself, pulling his knees in close to his chest. “I’m such a bloody loser writing poems about a guy I barely know.”

“I’m still not convinced he’s not writing about you,” Niall said.

“There are thirty people in the class,” Harry scoffed.

“Yeah, thirty people- one of whom writes poems about a lanky guy bringing him tea with chocolate curly hair,” Niall pointed out.

Harry furrowed his brows, contacts really starting to smart again. “How do you know about those?”

“You read them out loud to me!” Niall sighed. “Every bloody week you overfill a glass of wine and read L. Tomlin’s poems.”

“I read all the poems,” Harry frowned.

“Yes, but L. Tomlin’s poems are the ones you read out loud to me half drunk on alcohol and pining,” Niall retorted.

“Doesn’t mean they’re about me,” Harry shook his head. “I’ve not got ‘kissable lips like a cupids bow” or ‘a determined sort of brow’.”

Niall snorted, “Yeah, you do. Actually, mate. I really wish you would just talk to him.”

Harry shook his head. “Whomever he’s writing about sounds beautiful,” he said. “I’m not beautiful.”

“But you are, Harry,” Niall assured him, kissing his forehead. “You are.”

_My sun, your light shines bright across this place,_

_To bathe in that which you so freely give,_

_What warmth to be in worlds, in which you live,_

_Blinded by the love shone from your face,_

_I pine in a million miles of coldest space,_

_Moments past like fine sand through a sieve,_

_Clumsy stars hope that you can forgive,_

_To sweep them up into your strong embrace,_

_Bright and shining orbs in their own right,_

_Held in the gravity of your vast pull,_

_We follow paths, which can never break,_

_Eclipsed by you to shine only at night,_

_Steadfast in this the universe you rule,_

_The sun that’s shone my heart awake._

__

Louis started regretting taking an online class around week nine, when comments from the last poems were due and he desperately wanted to know who had written the sonnet titled “Solar Eclipse Of The Heart”. It was by far the best of the group even with the slant rhyme of “pull” and “rule”. He’d taken to reciting it around the house, reading it to Zayn multiple times while they’d smoked a bowl and polished off the last of their boxes of macaroni and cheese.

He had it open once again at Groovy Grounds, foregoing writing his own poem- this week’s “fun” Seussian inspired verse, for reading last week’s sonnets again. His own seemed so daft and simple compared to this. H. Styles got better and better every week, quickly becoming Louis’s favorite with every stanza.

Louis felt a presence behind him as he sipped his tea, an audible gasp announcing the busboy was there.

“I’m not done with my cookie,” Louis frowned slightly, looking down at his obviously unfinished cookie, but not turning to look at the busboy.

“A-are you in a poetry class?” the busboy asked slowly.

Louis nodded at his computer; not daring to turn around for fear the busboy would lose his nerve and run away again. “I am. It’s all online and we’re supposed to leave comments this week.”

“Oh,” the busboy answered neutrally.

“This one is my favorite,” Louis told him, holding up his computer so the other man could read over his shoulder.

“O-oh!” the sound of the busboy’s shoe scuffing the ground nervously was audible over the din of customers sipping and replacing coffee cups in the quiet post-morning rush.

“Yeah,” Louis continued, “the astronomy metaphors are really nice and I’m trying to say that without coming off like a gushing lunatic- if you’ll pardon the pun.”

A giggle rang out, quickly muffled behind a hand, Louis’s heart leapt at the sound, wishing he could think of a hundred dumb things to say to make the busboy giggle again.

“Do you have to write a poem as well?” the busboy asked.

“I do,” Louis told him, “I’m thinking mine will be about the moon.”

The busboy made a small peep, “good luck.”

“Thanks, mate,” Louis finally turned to look at him but he was gone.

_The brightest of stars hides you, little moon,_

_You duck behind Mars, light gone far too soon,_

_I’m aware it’s reflected from those who surround you,_

_But I’d hate to lose it when I’ve finally found you._

_Your gravitational pull so seemingly small,_

_The sun may rule but he’d give it all,_

_To hear that giggle which ignites the flame,_

_I’d give my whole universe to know your name._

__

Harry opened his laptop with shaking fingers. He pulled a double shift the day he found out that _the_ guy liked his poems and time dragged on forever. It was a certain kind of torture to know that not only was _the_ guy in his class but that he made silly puns about how much he liked Harry’s poems. And to Harry’s face none the less.  

He clicked the web browser open waiting for the page to load. Twelve new comments on his poem and four new submissions to the group sat before him. He chose his own poem to start, reading through each comment meticulously trying to find whichever one might belong to the guy before looking for L. Tomlin’s.

As it turned out they appeared to be one in the same.

_10:04 AM comment from L. Tomlin_

_Pretty sure I just sounded like an idiot trying to explain to the hot busboy how much I like this poem. You’ve got a bit of a slant rhyme but the imagery is aces. Comparing the vast emptiness of space to unrequited love? Brilliant._

Harry clutched at his chest, adjusting his glasses, and blinking rapidly as he read and reread the comment. He ran to Niall’s room, ignoring Niall’s near nakedness as he napped on top of his covers and smell of the mountains of unwashed clothes.

“NIALL!” he yelled, startling the other man awake. Niall sat straight up as Harry crashed into his lap.

“Harry!” Niall wrapped his arms around him. “Jesus what’s wrong?”

“I think you’re right,” Harry shouted, the words muffled against Niall’s downy stomach hairs.

“What about specifically this time?” Niall asked, rubbing at his eyes with his palms, resting back against his pillows once more.

“L. Tomlin- the guy in my class- I think he’s _the_ guy- I think his poems might be about _me_ ,” Harry told Niall’s belly button.

Niall reached his arms down to tug Harry up so he was laying beside him instead of on him mumbling “you’re a bloody fucking caveman.” “Now tell me what convinced you that I was right,” he gave Harry a soft, wry smile.

“He told me today that he liked my poem- or- er- he doesn’t know that it’s my poem but he told me he liked this certain poem and he showed it to me and it was mine. Then he left a comment saying I was hot!” Harry’s hands gripping Niall’s sides causing him to giggle, so Niall held his hands in his own, squeezing gently, reassuringly.

“What did the comment say exactly?” Niall lead.

“Pretty sure I just sounded like an idiot trying to explain to the hot busboy how much I like this poem,” Harry quoted.

Niall let out a low whistle. “He thinks your clumsy arse is hot? You better propose to him next time you see him,” he pulled a hand away to poke one of Harry’s dimples as he tried not to smile but failed, feeling more happily overwhelmed than insulted. He was awfully clumsy.

“Shut up,” Harry said bashfully.

“Write ‘marry me’ in sprinkles on one of those magical cookies you help bake for the shop,” Niall continued.

Harry hid his face this time, glasses awkwardly pressed against the bed, curls falling around, veiling his expression as he giggled.

“Did you read the poem he wrote about you this week?” Niall scratched at Harry’s scalp, Harry shook his head, face still pressed down. He pulled back reluctantly to grab his laptop again, opening L. Tomlin’s latest assignment post before writing his own.

_Perhaps the small moon does not mean to hide,_

_Perhaps very soon you’ll see what’s inside,_

_A geode, a gem, a crystalline core,_

_The side of the moon that you’ve not seen before,_

_It’s far from the dark place that’d you assume,_

_Not a stark barren landscape plagued with a gloom,_

_Sun, will you shine your bright light my way?_

_The kiss of the dawn, the break of day._

__

Louis sniffled into his cup of tea, adjusting his glasses as his sinus’s created a batman-mask of pain around his head. He didn’t want to be sick, but then again who ever did? It interrupted a great many things including footie practice, class, but most importantly it interrupted plans to go see the busboy who was finally warming up to Louis.

Louis was sure he was only three days away from the busboy giving him his name. After Louis’s shared his favorite poem with the busboy, the busboy had been more eager to talk to Louis. Louis wasn’t sure what made the busboy stay over the past couple of days, exchanging a few small questions or silly jokes or little anecdotes. But Louis was thankful because the busboy was delightful and Louis’s new life mission was to make him laugh.

Zayn came home with soup, crackers, and extra strength decongestant.

“Bless you,” Louis said, popping open the to-go soup container and sipping the warm broth.

Zayn gave him a small salute in response. “There’s another surprise for you in the bag,” Zayn told him as he walked past Louis towards his own room to drop off his things.

“Did you buy me new comics?” Louis asked.

“Nope,” Zayn responded, closing his door behind him.

Louis blinked, opening the bag Zayn set on the coffee table before him.  There was a box of saltines, medicine, and a bag not unlike the ones that Louis had seen other people taking away from Groovy Grounds containing delicious pastries. He snatched it, opening it quickly to see his usual sugar cookie staring back at him.  “ZAAYN,” Louis called hoarsely.

“Shut up!” Zayn called back, he opening his door, now wearing sweat pants and still looking fabulous. “You sound bloody awful, you shouldn’t talk.”

“Did you go to my coffee shop?” Louis ignored his scolding.

“It’s not your coffee shop, mate,” Zayn told him. “And yeah I went. Thought a cookie might cheer you up and I wanted to check out your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Louis frowned.

“Yet,” Zayn said.

Louis rolled his eyes.

“And I got myself a date,” Zayn followed up.

Louis nearly choked on his bite of cookie. “You what?”

“You’ve never mentioned in your infinite stories of Groovy Grounds that Liam is hot,” Zayn offered as an answer.

Louis had never thought about it but he supposed objectively Liam was hot. He was usually too distracted by how terrible his pants were and how gorgeous the busboy is.

“And I got your boyfriend’s name,” Zayn broke Louis’s train of thought.

“NO!” Louis said immediately. Zayn opened his mouth but Louis bellowed more loudly, “NO!”

Zayn frowned.

“I want to earn his name! He’s going to tell me! I’m THREE DAYS AWAY!” Louis told him.

_Once the sun king was sick,_

_His friend devised the nastiest trick,_

_Brought a cookie and name,_

_It just wasn’t the same,_

_His friend was the most massive dick._

 

__

Harry’s worries were quelled when L. Tomlin was finally back at the coffee shop. At first he’d been worried that L. Tomlin had figured out it was Harry writing the poems and maybe that’s why he hadn’t been seen for a week, but according to his very confusing poem he’d just been ill. Harry hoped that’s what the poem meant at least, not that he wished L. Tomlin was sick- just that that was all.

He set L. Tomlin’s usual order beside his seat before he’d even entered the shop, having seen him walking past the longest glass window, determined expression on his face.

L. Tomlin looked only half surprised to see his usual order on the table beside his usual chair. He smiled so sweetly at the cookie and tea, nestling into his spot. He looked extra soft today in an oversized hoodie with their school’s name and mascot, fringe disheveled, and glasses on.

Harry went to collect his plate immediately when he’d finished, not that he’d been watching closely from his spot at the back.

“We missed you,” Harry said, plucking up his courage, proud for not stuttering once. “Liam- and the cookies and me- I mean.”

“What’s your name?” L. Tomlin blurted out, then covered his mouth.

Harry wasn’t expecting that, feet itching to turn and run the other way. “Harry,” he said.

“Harry,” L. Tomlin grinned brightly and Harry felt his heart melt.

“W-what’s yours?” Harry asked, wincing at the hesitation.

“Louis,” Louis answered, completely unbothered. “So- Liam and the cookies and you?”

Harry nodded, flushing slightly, fiddling with the strings on his apron.

“Thank you for the cookies and tea, Harry,” Louis said.

“It’s my pleasure, Louis,” Harry answered, he ducked away before anything else could be said, heart rabbiting in his chest.

_Be mine golden sun who’s named for a king,_

_Although I, the moon cannot wish to hold,_

_Such a great star, you wonderful thing,_

_Warming my soul from the desolate cold._

__

For their last poem they were assigned a partner, chosen lazily through alphabetical order by last name. Louis was elated. Itching to know more about the H. Styles he’d been paired with. Their professor let them arrange it however they wished, writing it all online, or meeting in person, they didn’t care, as long as it got done.

Louis sent a direct message to H. Styles requesting they meet in person, ending the plea with a cheesy “it’d be great to put a face to the stanzas.”

After a few seemingly reluctant responses, H. Styles agreed to meet Louis at Groovy Grounds that Friday after they finished work at 1 o clock.

Louis arrived at his usual time, midmorning, writing a few notes on what their poem might look like. Louis was fully prepared to put his heart on his sleeve and explain how his poems were inspired by Harry but slowly shifted as the semester went on to being about Harry and responses to H. Style’s work itself. Maybe he really should have been embarrassed, but life was too short for that sort of thing and there were only three weeks left in the semester. If he made an idiot of himself he’d never have to see any of these people ever again.

Harry refilled his teacup twice before the witching hour rolled around. Louis sat fiddling his fingers, tapping them against his laptop before closing it and placing it on the table beside him, crossing and uncrossing his legs.

Five minutes past the hour, and every person that walked past the coffee shop made Louis’s heart race. He wasn’t even sure if H. Styles was a man or a woman or self identified otherwise.

Harry emerged from the backroom, tugging idly at his apron. “Hey, Haz,” Louis said.

“Hi, Lou,” Harry answered quietly. Louis smiled at the nicknames they’d fallen into.

“I’m supposed to meet someone,” Louis told him.

“Yeah,” Harry nodded, pulling his apron off and sitting opposite of Louis.

Louis’s eyebrows furrowed as Harry rolled his apron up and set it on the table opposite of his own. His eyes flashed wide in recognition. “H-Harry Styles?” Louis asked.

“Louis Tomlin?” Harry answered.

“Tomlinson,” Louis said.

“Louis Tomlinson,” Harry smiled sweetly at the ground, “That’s much better. It suits you.”

“Fuck,” Louis said after a beat.

Harry looked up at him, eyes wide and scared.

Louis looked a bit pained before his expression melted away into a soft euphoric smile. “I’m so fucking glad it’s you,” he said, standing up from his chair and pulling Harry out of his and directly into a hug.

Harry was stiff in his arms before melting into it, eventually reciprocating the hug. Louis pulled back, eyes watery. “I just realized- and I’m so embarrassed- I told you I thought you were hot.”

Harry giggled at that, hiding his face in his hand, “No more embarrassing than everything I wrote about you.”

“They were about me, then?” Louis asked gently.

“Yeah,” Harry hummed.

“That’s probably good then,” Louis told him. “Because mine were all about you.”

They laughed close, chest pressed together before Louis said, “I’d really like to kiss you.”

“I’d really like that too,” Harry exhaled and Louis’s lips were on his. It was questioning and sweet at first, but then Harry threw his weight into it and Louis responded in kind. It was shooting stars and supernovas.

“So- would you like to go on a date with me?” Louis asked.

Harry smiled his full dimpled grin. “We should probably finish the assignment first.”

“Then a date?” Louis clarified.

“Yes,” Harry giggled. “Then a date.”

 

_Two stars drift against black sky_

_Cross paths and planets realign_

_You pulled me_

_The moon that pulls the tide_

_I circled_

_The earth around the sun_

_I dare you to eclipse me_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Akikotree for driving me around and letting me read this to you. It's been years since I wrote a sonnet and you were incredibly encouraging. And thank you for the final poem.


End file.
